Charlotte's Web (13 page)

“Maybe he's older than I am, and has had more time to grow,” suggested Wilbur. Tears began to come to his eyes.

“I'll drop down and have a closer look,” Charlotte said. Then she crawled along a beam till she was directly over the next pen. She let herself down on a dragline until she hung in the air just in front of the big pig's snout.

“May I have your name?” she asked, politely.

The pig stared at her. “No name,” he said in a big, hearty voice. “Just call me Uncle.”

“Very well, Uncle,” replied Charlotte. “What is the date of your birth? Are you a spring pig?”

“Sure I'm a spring pig,” replied Uncle. “What did you think I was, a spring chicken? Haw, haw—that's a good one, eh, Sister?”

“Mildly funny,” said Charlotte. “I've heard funnier ones, though. Glad to have met you, and now I must be going.”

She ascended slowly and returned to Wilbur's pen.

“He claims he's a spring pig,” reported Charlotte,
“and perhaps he is. One thing is certain, he has a most unattractive personality. He is too familiar, too noisy, and he cracks weak jokes. Also, he's not anywhere near as clean as you are, nor as pleasant. I took quite a dislike to him in our brief interview. He's going to be a hard pig to beat, though, Wilbur, on account of his size and weight. But with me helping you, it can be done.”

“When are you going to spin a web?” asked Wilbur.

“This afternoon, late, if I'm not too tired,” said
Charlotte. “The least thing tires me these days. I don't seem to have the energy I once had. My age, I guess.”

Wilbur looked at his friend. She looked rather swollen and she seemed listless.

“I'm awfully sorry to hear that you're feeling poorly, Charlotte,” he said. “Perhaps if you spin a web and catch a couple of flies you'll feel better.”

“Perhaps,” she said, wearily. “But I feel like the end of a long day.” Clinging upside down to the ceiling, she settled down for a nap, leaving Wilbur very much worried.

All morning people wandered past Wilbur's pen. Dozens and dozens of strangers stopped to stare at him and to admire his silky white coat, his curly tail, his kind and radiant expression. Then they would move on to the next pen where the bigger pig lay. Wilbur heard several people make favorable remarks about Uncle's great size. He couldn't help overhearing these remarks, and he couldn't help worrying. “And now, with Charlotte not feeling well . . .” he thought. “Oh, dear!”

All morning Templeton slept quietly under the straw. The day grew fiercely hot. At noon the Zuckermans and the Arables returned to the pigpen. Then, a few minutes later, Fern and Avery showed up. Fern had a monkey doll in her arms and was eating Crackerjack. Avery had a balloon tied to his ear and was chewing a candied apple. The children were hot and dirty.

“Isn't it hot?” said Mrs. Zuckerman.

“It's
terribly
hot,” said Mrs. Arable, fanning herself with an advertisement of a deep freeze.

One by one they climbed into the truck and opened lunch boxes. The sun beat down on everything. Nobody seemed hungry.

“When are the judges going to decide about Wilbur?” asked Mrs. Zuckerman.

“Not till tomorrow,” said Mr. Zuckerman.

Lurvy appeared, carrying an Indian blanket that he had won.

“That's just what we need,” said Avery. “A blanket.”

“Of course it is,” replied Lurvy. And he spread the blanket across the sideboards of the truck so that it was like a little tent. The children sat in the shade, under the blanket, and felt better.

After lunch, they stretched out and fell asleep.

I
N THE cool of the evening, when shadows darkened the Fair Grounds, Templeton crept from the crate and looked around. Wilbur lay asleep in the straw. Charlotte was building a web. Templeton's keen nose detected many fine smells in the air. The rat was hungry and thirsty. He decided to go exploring. Without saying anything to anybody, he started off.

“Bring me back a word!” Charlotte called after him. “I shall be writing tonight for the last time.”

The rat mumbled something to himself and disappeared into the shadows. He did not like being treated like a messenger boy.

After the heat of the day, the evening came as a welcome relief to all. The Ferris wheel was lighted now. It went round and round in the sky and seemed twice as high as by day. There were lights on the midway, and you could hear the crackle of the gambling machines and the music of the merry-go-round and the voice of the man in the beano booth calling numbers.

The children felt refreshed after their nap. Fern met
her friend Henry Fussy, and he invited her to ride with him in the Ferris wheel. He even bought a ticket for her, so it didn't cost her anything. When Mrs. Arable happened to look up into the starry sky and saw her little daughter sitting with Henry Fussy and going higher and higher into the air, and saw how happy Fern looked, she just shook her head. “My, my!” she said. “Henry Fussy. Think of that!”

Templeton kept out of sight. In the tall grass behind the cattle barn he found a folded newspaper. Inside it were leftovers from somebody's lunch: a deviled ham sandwich, a piece of Swiss cheese, part of a hard-boiled egg, and the core of a wormy apple. The rat crawled in and ate everything. Then he tore a word out of the paper, rolled it up, and started back to Wilbur's pen.

Charlotte had her web almost finished when Templeton returned, carrying the newspaper clipping. She had left a space in the middle of the web. At this hour, no people were around the pigpen, so the rat and the spider and the pig were by themselves.

“I hope you brought a good one,” Charlotte said. “It is the last word I shall ever write.”

“Here,” said Templeton, unrolling the paper.

“What does it say?” asked Charlotte. “You'll have to read it for me.”

“It says ‘Humble,'” replied the rat.

“Humble?” said Charlotte. “‘Humble' has two meanings. It means ‘not proud' and it means ‘near the ground.' That's Wilbur all over. He's not proud and he's near the ground.”

“Well, I hope you're satisfied,” sneered the rat. “I'm not going to spend all my time fetching and carrying. I came to this Fair to enjoy myself, not to deliver papers.”

“You've been very helpful,” Charlotte said. “Run along, if you want to see more of the Fair.”

The rat grinned. “I'm going to make a night of it,” he said. “The old sheep was right—this Fair is a rat's paradise. What eating! And what drinking! And everywhere good hiding and good hunting. Bye, bye, my humble Wilbur! Fare thee well, Charlotte, you old schemer! This will be a night to remember in a rat's life.”

He vanished into the shadows.

Charlotte went back to her work. It was quite dark now. In the distance, fireworks began going off—rockets, scattering fiery balls in the sky. By the time the
Arables and the Zuckermans and Lurvy returned from the grandstand, Charlotte had finished her web. The word HUMBLE was woven neatly in the center. Nobody noticed it in the darkness. Everyone was tired and happy.

Fern and Avery climbed into the truck and lay down. They pulled the Indian blanket over them. Lurvy gave Wilbur a forkful of fresh straw. Mr. Arable patted him. “Time for us to go home,” he said to the pig. “See you tomorrow.”

The grownups climbed slowly into the truck and Wilbur heard the engine start and then heard the truck moving away in low speed. He would have felt lonely and homesick, had Charlotte not been with him. He
never felt lonely when she was near. In the distance he could still hear the music of the merry-go-round.

As he was dropping off to sleep he spoke to Charlotte.

“Sing me that song again, about the dung and the dark,” he begged.

“Not tonight,” she said in a low voice. “I'm too tired.” Her voice didn't seem to come from her web.

“Where are you?” asked Wilbur. “I can't see you. Are you on your web?”

“I'm back here,” she answered. “Up in this back corner.”

“Why aren't you on your web?” asked Wilbur. “You almost
never
leave your web.”

“I've left it tonight,” she said.

Wilbur closed his eyes. “Charlotte,” he said, after a while, “do you really think Zuckerman will let me live and not kill me when the cold weather comes? Do you really think so?”

“Of course,” said Charlotte. “You are a famous pig and you are a good pig. Tomorrow you will probably win a prize. The whole world will hear about you. Zuckerman will be proud and happy to own such a pig. You have nothing to fear, Wilbur—nothing to worry about. Maybe you'll live forever—who knows? And now, go to sleep.”

For a while there was no sound. Then Wilbur's voice:

“What are you doing up there, Charlotte?”

“Oh, making something,” she said. “Making something, as usual.”

“Is it something for me?” asked Wilbur.

“No,” said Charlotte. “It's something for
me
, for a change.”

“Please tell me what it is,” begged Wilbur.

“I'll tell you in the morning,” she said. “When the first light comes into the sky and the sparrows stir and the cows rattle their chains, when the rooster crows and the stars fade, when early cars whisper along the highway, you look up here and I'll show you something. I will show you my masterpiece.”

Before she finished the sentence, Wilbur was asleep. She could tell by the sound of his breathing that he was sleeping peacefully, deep in the straw.

Miles away, at the Arables' house, the men sat around the kitchen table eating a dish of canned peaches and talking over the events of the day. Upstairs, Avery was already in bed and asleep. Mrs. Arable was tucking Fern into bed.

“Did you have a good time at the Fair?” she asked as she kissed her daughter.

Fern nodded. “I had the best time I have ever had anywhere or any time in all of my whole life.”

“Well!” said Mrs. Arable. “Isn't that nice!”

N
EXT morning when the first light came into the sky and the sparrows stirred in the trees, when the cows rattled their chains and the rooster crowed and the early automobiles went whispering along the road, Wilbur awoke and looked for Charlotte. He saw her up overhead in a corner near the back of his pen. She was very quiet. Her eight legs were spread wide. She seemed to have shrunk during the night. Next to her, attached to the ceiling, Wilbur saw a curious object. It was a sort of sac, or cocoon. It was peach-colored and looked as though it were made of cotton candy.

“Are you awake, Charlotte?” he said softly.

“Yes,” came the answer.

“What is that nifty little thing? Did you make it?”

“I did indeed,” replied Charlotte in a weak voice.

“Is it a plaything?”